Page 25 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
Granny Rose snorts. ‘Not me. He’d rather pick on a child.’
‘I’m not a child,’ I say.
‘No, but you were, when he started.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mum asks. ‘Why didn’t either of you tell me?’
I don’t know how to answer that, but luckily Granny Rose does.
‘Because you taught her not to, love,’ she says. ‘You taught her, from the very first time that man laid a finger on you, that what you do in that situation is cover up and pretend it’s not happening. I’ve thought about getting us all out, so many times, about scraping together enough money to rent somewhere. But I was scared that you wouldn’t come, that you’d still choose him over her. I couldn’t bear that.’
And then none of us says anything for a while, because it is so obvious and true. And I wish we’d had the courage to have this conversation years ago, when it first started. How different things might have been if we had. But we didn’t. And while having it now is better than nothing, it’s done some damage that can’t be undone; I know that. I don’t stand up for a long time, because I know that I will never again have this honesty with these two women who I’ve always loved. The ones I am leaving, because they failed to protect me.
15
NOW
It takes Mick a few seconds to recognise me, but when he does, I see it click. He says something to Dr Jenkins, about how we knew each other a long time ago, and god knows what she makes of that, but she lets him go and says we’ll sort out the scan later. Leaves me with Angela.
I feel panicky and frightened. Angela doesn’t ask me any questions, she just rubs my back in circular motions as I take deep, gulping breaths and get myself under control. It comes back to me, at that moment, that I once told my mum I might like to be a nurse, when I was nine or ten or so, and she said she didn’t think I had the right qualities for it. And she was right. These men and women, who are paid pretty appallingly, are sometimes required to hold a person’s hand, or just sit in companionable silence with a stranger, or to rub the back of a woman who is scared and alone, and I’m not sure I would have it in me. But I’m glad Angela does.
‘Do you want a tea?’ she asks when I’m calmer.
‘Yes please. What about the scan?’
‘Oh, the scan can wait. Don’t worry about it.’
While she’s gone, I think about the commotion I caused, how uncommon that must be here in Intensive Care, where everything is so still and serious, where people are too ill to make a scene. It makes me wonder something.
‘Here you go,’ Angela says, putting a hot mug of tea on my tray.
‘When will I go to a normal ward?’ I ask.
‘Oh, quite soon I expect.’
I nod. I’m getting better. I’ve been out of bed, sat in a chair, and while that’s not a huge thing, it’s a lot more than most of the inhabitants of this unit can manage. I will miss Angela, I think. She is so kind, so caring.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
She doesn’t ask what for. It must happen a lot, this. She just nods slightly and gives me a smile that crinkles her eyes and asks if I’ve looked at the dinner menu yet today. And I’m exhausted suddenly, like the run-in with Mick has taken every last ounce of energy I had. I feel my eyelids starting to droop, and I fall asleep to the sound of Angela’s chatter.
When Matt appears, I’m disorientated. Before, he’s always come in the evening, but I haven’t eaten dinner yet. It must still be mid-afternoon.
‘It was quiet in the restaurant,’ he says, as if he can read my thoughts. ‘Thought I’d pop up for a few minutes, see my favourite patient.’
He must say that to everyone. But it’s nice to hear, all the same.
‘How are the customers today?’
‘Oh, the usual. Mostly a delight, but the odd one, Jesus.’
‘There’s always one. It’s the same at the pub.’
‘Tell me your worst.’
I let out a small laugh, and it feels good. ‘It’s mostly just men who are too drunk and want to fight or think they’re entitled to the attentions of women who aren’t interested in them.’
‘At least we don’t have drunkenness to contend with here,’ Matt says.
